Sitting at lunch after a silent contouring north from Kirkaugh, drizzle and midges, pausing at a lime kiln
resting up the sky clear and the breeze dissuades the midges. We sing an African song to Geoff and are astonished by Peter’s bull-roarer remembering his Mother and Brother.

Day Four: Featherstone to Castle Carrockwritten by the ruined house, sculptures made here

Long curves fold graciously.
Imperceptibly the horizon
rises and falls.

Lichened stone walls,
Lime kiln,
Both dry, both ancient.

Today we drift along
The pathways
Gentler passing

Following footsteps of Northern saint
Hoofprints of thieving raider

They worked coal and ore
Where now we walk
And I ease through the edgelands

In those purple high rise flatsThe tithe collector movesFrom door to doorFilling furry trousers with pollen.